


A Lesson in Empathy

by Teleri



Series: Closer than a friend, I could be your enemy [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottom Loki (Marvel), Canon Divergence - Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Communication Failure, Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Thor (Marvel), Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Top Thor (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 17:11:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18706723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teleri/pseuds/Teleri
Summary: Months into their stay with the Grandmaster, Thor begins having dreams of memories that are not his own. ‘It’s manageable’ he tells himself, until the after-effects start bleeding into waking hours.The Grandmaster drew back, “I get the feeling that this… relationship, is a bit one sided. A bit… well,” he smiled to himself as Loki tensed beneath him, “it’s not really my place to say.”Thor began to chew the inside of his mouth.The Grandmaster smiled, all teeth. “I mean, how well do you really know each other?”





	A Lesson in Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [Loxxlay](https://loxxxlay.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this, and for being a wonderful human in general <3 
> 
> Just to note that although this fic is tagged as Thor/Loki, it does follow this [Grandthorki definition](https://loxxxlay.tumblr.com/post/176993979749/ive-had-3-people-ask-me-in-the-last-week-or-so), meaning that Loki and Thor's feelings for each other in this fic are platonic.

Loki was beneath him, breath stuttering on every inhale, every exhale. His eyes were focused on anywhere but Thor’s face, flitting quickly from one point in the room to another. His hands, fisted tightly in the satin sheets, were white-knuckled.

Thor grit his teeth and reached a hand down in between them, found Loki's half hard cock—ignored the shudder that ran through Loki's body—and began stroking him in time with his thrusts.

Beneath him, Loki tensed further. Breath coming in short little gasps as Thor’s thrusts became quicker, more desperate. Desperate for this to be over with, desperate to be alone with Loki in their own four walls, no eyes watching them, no ears listening to them.  

Thor came minutes later, the pleasure brief and blinding. A wave of relief rippled through him before he noticed that Loki's cock was still hard in his hand.

Thor dropped his head to Loki's shoulder, shoving down the pang of hurt when Loki turned his face away, breathing erratic.

“Well uh,” the Grandmaster came to stand beside them, he smiled and stroked a hand down Thor's back. “Wasn’t that nice?”

Thor swallowed down the retort on his tongue, biting the inside of his mouth when the Grandmaster proceeded to pat him on the ass, grabbing a handful and kneading appreciatively.

“Such a specimen,” the Grandmaster murmured to himself. Then loud enough for the entire room to hear, “Come on Thunder Boy, my turn.”

Thor hesitated, only pushing himself up when Loki dug a knee into his ribs. He gritted his teeth and pulled out, sitting back with a hand wrapped around Loki's wrist, lingering.

The Grandmaster tutted, his mouth pulling into an exaggerated frown as he took Loki's cock in hand.

“Did the Lord of Thunder fail to impress?” he asked, squeezing hard enough for Loki to bite his lip. Under Thor's fingers, the tendons of Loki's wrist contracted.

The Grandmaster looked at Thor and chuckled. “I kid, I kid. We uh, all know what an attentive lover you are,” he winked and patted the hand that was still wrapped around Loki's wrist.

Thor hated him, for making them do this, for daring to make light of it. They weren’t lovers, they were prisoners. Their entire situation was forced, fabricated to please the whims of a sick, hedonistic lunatic. They were nothing more than hostages turned into entertainment.

With each passing day the Grandmaster managed to drive the wedge between them ever deeper, and it was moments like this—as Loki slipped his wrist free from Thor's grasp and crawled closer to the Grandmaster—that made Thor wonder whether they would still be able to call each other brother.

Thor watched on in silence, heart pounding against his ribcage as the Grandmaster turned Loki onto his front and pressed his head down against the mattress.

“You see Sparkles,” he pulled Loki up by his hips, “your brother has certain needs, and, uh, well, I’m starting to wonder if you know what they are.”

Thor began to chew the inside of his mouth.

The Grandmaster smiled, all teeth. “I mean, how well do you really know each other?”

 

* * *

 

Thor typed in the access code to their apartment—changed daily, and known only by the Grandmaster—with gritted teeth. The keypad flashed green, and Thor stepped over the threshold before the door had even fully opened.

Loki lingered in the doorway, eyes glazed over as he stared at the cracked tiles by the sofa. His fingers twitched against the doorframe, breath coming fast and shallow.

Thor reached towards him on instinct, only stopping when Loki flinched away, fingers squeaking against scuffed metal.

Thor swallowed down an apology along with his guilt.

“Are you okay?”

Loki seemed to shake himself.

“Of course I am,” he strode past Thor. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Thor detected the hidden edge to the question, and wanted to cut himself on it all the same.

He opened his mouth-

_ The Grandmaster drew back, hands sliding down Loki's spine, over the curve of his ass, “I get the feeling that this… relationship, is a bit one sided. A bit… well,” he smiled to himself as Loki tensed beneath him, “it’s not really my place to say.” _

“Don’t.” Loki planted his hands on the wooden countertop of the bar. “Just, don’t.”

Thor folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t what?”

Loki's nails scratched against the grain of the wood. “I don’t want to do this again, Thor,” he said. Then a whisper so quite Thor barely heard it, “I can’t.”

Thor took in the way Loki held himself so rigidly, every muscle tensed as if in anticipation for a fight. How his hands were curled into claws, nails carving crescent shapes into the countertop.

Thor remembered the time those same hands had scrabbled at polished tiles, unable to find purchase as he’d-

He squeezed his eyes shut, Loki a shapeless dark spot behind his eyelids. He held Loki there and etched in every detail, the old scars and the new, the ones that weren’t visible on the surface, the ones he had put there. He committed each of them to memory, opened his eyes and saw Loki's own hollow ones staring back at him.

Thor took a breath, two, three.

“I didn’t say anything,” he murmured.

Loki dropped his gaze to his hands. “You didn’t have to.”

_ The Grandmaster cleared his throat. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Perhaps I’ve got the wrong end of the melt-stick, but suppose you, uh, know more than you let on. It just, well, it makes me wonder how much you care about him because,” the Grandmaster smiled, an overly sad twist of his mouth, “you just don’t seem to give him what he needs.” _

Thor tried not to bridle at the statement.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Loki sighed. “Nothing.”

“It’s clearly not ‘nothing.’”

Loki slumped, pushing himself away from the counter and towards the bathroom.

“It’s nothing that matters.”

_ Thor opened his mouth to protest just as the Grandmaster forced himself into Loki in one sharp thrust. Loki's eyes slammed shut, fingers digging into his arms as the Grandmaster leant over his back, lips against his ear. “Isn’t it good that I’m here to take care of you?” _

Thor opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“I want-” he started, but trailed off. Loki stopped outside the bathroom door, fingers poised over the handle, his back to Thor. Thor's mind stumbled over the words, unable to settle on what he wanted to say versus what was safe to say.

_ Why won’t you just be honest with me? Why can’t you just say what you mean? _

“I-”

_ I want you to look at me with something other than apathy. I want us to go back to the way we were. I want my brother back. _

_ …I just want you to talk to me. _

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough.

Loki seemed to deflate even further.

“I don’t want your apologies.”

Thor sighed, unwilling to start an argument. “I know.”

Silence descended between them, thick and heavy. Thor sought out the liquor cabinet behind the bar for something to do; found the darkest, strongest-looking liquid, and poured himself a glass.

It was on the third mouthful of bitterness that Loki spoke.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Loki said quietly as he turned to face Thor. “I want you to do better.”

“Do better?” Thor echoed.

“Yes,” Loki answered. Then pre-empting Thor's response, he added, “You can’t let him know he’s getting to you.” Loki said it as if it were obvious, as if Thor could just switch off and-

Memories came unbidden, crashing through Thor like a tidal wave; the way Loki had been rigid underneath him, and how he had been pliant under the hands of the Grandmaster; the way the Grandmaster simply had to speak, and Loki answered; the way the Grandmaster had taken Loki as if he owned him, as if he were nothing more than a common whore; how Loki had trembled with every touch, keened with every thrust; and Thor had stood there at the edge of it all, watching everything and unable to do a damn thing.

When Thor spoke, his voice was constricted, anger rising up to form an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

“I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I didn’t look  _ at  _ him. I didn’t look away. I stood there, and I watched. Just as you told me to.”

“You twitch, when something is getting under your skin,” Loki said. “You huff when you’re unhappy. You glare when you’re angry. If looks could kill-”

“If only,” Thor muttered.

“It’s not funny, Thor.” Loki's gaze was piercing, daring Thor to challenge him. “Every action has a consequence. Every movement here, matters. You don’t have to open your mouth to make a mistake.”

Thor slammed his glass down on the counter, watched the way Loki flinched slightly at the harshness of it—his calm façade shattering for an instant.

“What would you have me do? Stop breathing?”

Loki opened his mouth as if to answer, and for a moment, Thor wanted him to. He wanted Loki to tell him exactly how he felt. He wanted Loki to be cruel in the words he chose. 

“Try harder,” Loki said instead.

Thor resented him for saying it as if it were that easy. As if it were as simple as trying harder, when day after day Thor had to watch as Loki writhed uncomfortable underneath him, only to willingly crawl into the Grandmaster’s lap afterwards. When each time they were forced to put on a show, Thor would come and leave Loki unsatisfied—much to the Grandmaster’s delight.

_ “See, Sparkles,” the Grandmaster fisted a hand in Loki's hair, forcing him to hold his head up, “this is what your little brother likes.” He snapped his hips forward and Loki whimpered, bottom lip between his teeth. “See?” the Grandmaster crooned. _

It wasn’t as if trying harder would make any difference. The problem wasn’t Thor's attitude, it was that when they were intimate with each other, Thor couldn’t do—didn’t want to do—the things that Loki seemed to crave.

He couldn’t give Loki what he needed.

It repulsed Thor to know that some small part of him  _ wanted  _ to be what Loki needed. He wanted Loki to be able to find completion with him, if only so Thor didn’t have to watch him find it with someone else.

Thor's stomach churned uncomfortably, and he gulped down the last of his drink.

“You know I can’t…” Thor searched for the right words, “be rough with you.”

Loki folded his arms across his chest, hands hidden. He stuck his chin out, as if Thor's admission of weakness had somehow offended him.

“I’m not stopping you.”

Perhaps not literally, Thor thought. But he didn’t need Loki to tell him not to do something. It was written in every line of his face when they fucked. It was the way Loki looked at him with a sense of betrayal when he thought Thor couldn’t see. It was how Loki still woke up multiple times a night, breathing harsh as he wrapped his arms around himself, as if that would stop the shaking. It was how when he thought Thor was asleep, he would try to muffle his sobs in his pillow until he exhausted himself into sleep.

Thor didn’t need Loki to tell him, because the damage was plainly visible. However much Loki tried to hide it.

“I know you’re not, but I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Loki hesitated, eyes flicking back and forth between Thor and the cracked floor tiles. His expression hardened, mouth forming a grim line as he pushed the handle down and stepped into the bathroom. “Learn to,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Loki emerged from the shower four drinks later, already clothed in his sleep trousers.

Thor took him in from where he sat on the couch, watched as Loki methodically brushed out the knots in his hair, uncaring of the cold water that dripped down his skin. Thor noted the muted red scratch marks that ran down his arms, over his torso and back, and wondered whether they covered the rest of his body too.

Thor cleared his throat and set his glass down on the wooden table that the Grandmaster had ever so graciously fixed.

“Do you want a drink?” Loki's movements slowed, every motion careful and measured. “Some water or something,” Thor elaborated.

“No, thank you,” Loki replied quietly as he pulled on the baggy tunic he’d taken to sleeping in since that night.

“You sure? I haven’t seen you eat anything today. I could make some soup or something?”

Loki's fingers picked at the fraying edge of his sleeve, “I’m quite alright, thank you.”

“I was gonna make myself some anyway,” Thor lied, “so it’s not a problem.”

Loki took a deep breath and swallowed. “Not hungry.”

Thor wanted to push, wanted to plead with Loki to eat something. He would spoon-feed him if necessary. But Thor saw the way Loki held himself so rigidly. The way his movements were shifty and stilted, like a clockwork toy on the verge of needing rewinding. The way his eyes either focused on something too long, or not at all.

Thor knew better than to push.

“Get some sleep,” Thor said instead.

Loki nodded and climbed into bed. He didn’t pull the covers up, instead choosing to push them to the bottom of the bed.

When they were younger, Loki had always had multiple blankets piled atop him when he slept. Not because he got cold. Loki never got cold. But because—a young Loki had confessed, tucked against Thor's chest as he shook off the grip of his latest nightmare—it made him feel safe.

But Thor was learning here in Sakaar, that there wasn’t much he could do to protect Loki. Love was a weakness. Nothing more than a way to exploit someone. Love had no place here. Loki had told him as much the night he’d come back—the night he’d painted Thor red before drawing him into a kiss—the night he’d finally chosen to stay with Thor again.

Thor watched as Loki lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The movement of his chest rapid and shallow as his fingers tapped against his sternum.

Thor wanted to say something, wanted to know what words to say to make everything alright. He opened his mouth, and knew that there were none.

“Loki?”

Loki's fingers twitched against his chest, and after a breath he hummed in response.

“I’ll be better,” Thor said, “I’ll work on- on hiding things. I’ll try not to let him get under my skin.”

“Alright,” Loki murmured.

“You do know I’m trying, don’t you?” Thor couldn’t keep the shakiness out of his voice, and damned the last drink he’d had.

Loki exhaled slowly. “I know.”

Thor saw Loki shiver, and refrained from getting up and pulling the covers over him, instead shuffling to lie down against the plush leather of the sofa.

Sleep did not come easily.

 

* * *

 

_ “Is it a voice you lack? Or the will to use it?” _

_ She sneers, crimson eyes narrowing as she watches him double over, hand flying to his chest. _

_ He looks up at her with wide eyes, his voice nothing more than a strangled croak, “What have you done?” _

_ She smiles, a wicked kind of glee dancing in her eyes. “It speaks!” she declares mockingly, and behind him, he hears the soldiers that forced the contents of the vial down his throat snicker in clicks and snarls. _

_ “What have you-” His heart stops, and he is left there, mouth hanging open as she kicks him to the ground. _

_ “Restrain him,” she commands the soldiers, and they pull him to his knees, binding his arms behind his back. _

_ “We gave you sanctuary. We gave you a means to survive.” She fists a hand in his hair, and yanks it back till he is forced to meet her gaze. “Yet you continue to repay us with silence.” _

_ He chokes on nothing, his vision tinging black at the edges; some far away part of him, tells him that he should be fighting back.  _ Breathe _ , it tells him.  _ You have to breathe.

_ But he’s so tired. Tired of breathing—of living. _

_ “Father does not take kindly to those who are ungrateful. You would have been welcomed into our family if you’d behaved, but now, you belong to us. To do with as we please, and this,” she holds the empty vial between her thumb and forefinger, “is what your silence has earned you.” _

_ His heart starts up again in double time, pounding frantically against his ribcage. He pulls in a frantic breath, coughing and spluttering. The second breath is no less desperate. _

_ She grips his chin with bruising force. “You will speak, one way or another.” She squeezes, gloved nails digging into already tender flesh; beneath the pressure, blood rushes to the surface of his cold, clammy skin. _

_ She releases him, and his jaw throbs in the rhythm that signals an oncoming bruise. “You could have saved yourself a lot of pain. They all surrender in the end,”  and behind the determination in her eyes, he sees joy. “You will be no different.” _

_ Beneath his skin, something twists, coiling tighter and tighter within him. It entwines with his seidr, the pressure constricting, stifling—like the way ivy cuts into the bark of a tree in its haste to feel sunlight. He pulls at the mass of tangled knots, trying to find a loose end with which to unravel- but the moment he reaches for it a rush of energy cascades through him, vicious and effervescent. The defensive binding around his seidr draws tighter, pulling it out of his reach. _

_ Panic claws its way up his throat. “You’ve poisoned me.” _

_ The woman—the creature—smiles. _

_ Inside his stomach, a fire flickers to life, an uncomfortable warmth that permeates each layer of cells, till he can feel the heat emanating from his fingertips. _

_ He again reaches for his seidr—groping blindly, desperately—and only finds fraying edges that have worked themselves loose from their confines. He grasps at them regardless, attempting to twist them around the ever-expanding branches of fire. But the poison is aggressive, and no sooner has he tied a knot round one path, than another has blazed through in its place, scorching his weak tendrils into mere dead ends. _

_ His head throbs with the exertion of it, and as the fire under his skin heightens to an unbearable heat, his stomach lurches. _

_ He retches, bringing up nothing but bile. _

_ He conjures a weak smile, ignoring the sour taste in his mouth. “There are far quicker ways to kill me than this,” he says. _

_ He hears her huff, an amused, almost sympathetic sound. “Yes. But what use are you dead?” _

_ His whole body shudders, and he crumples to the ground with a whimper. _

_ “What is your name?” the woman asks. _

_ He opens his mouth to speak only to retch once more. His stomach aches with the force of it. _

_ “What,” she repeats, “is your name?” _

_ He wants to tell her he doesn’t have one, that the name given to him was a false one. That he is no one. Nothing. _

_ Instead he coughs, and red droplets spatter the floor at her feet. _

_ “Where do you come from?” _

_ There was a place, he thinks. Somewhere where he used to belong, but the memories are hazy, and each time he grasps one, it slips through his fingers like rushing water. _

I don’t know _ , he thinks desperately, and tells her as such. _

_ He blinks, and gold flashes before his eyes, towering structures filling an azure sky. He turns, and always out of the corner of his eye he sees red, a glint of silver, something—someone—just out of reach. Around him, the sky darkens, storm clouds gathering on the horizon; it’s familiar he thinks, the electricity that seems to hum in the air; the way he feels static on his skin; how he hears thunder roll across the sky and his heart is contented at the sound. A presence settles next to him, casting him in shadow. He turns, and sees only lightening in its place, but he knows somehow, that this moment where he lives between the shades of light and dark, is home. _

 

Lies.

 

_ The world inverts, and he is left cowering in snow. He presses a hand against its crisp surface and watches, waiting for it to melt under his touch—it never does. He remembers words that used to mean something, people that used to- used to mean something. He says it, over and over, as if he can etch the words into his cobalt blue skin. _

_ Used to. _

_                  Used to. _

_ But thunder still rumbles overhead, and lightning still strikes around him, tracing a path over his skin and into his heart. He cries out, his voice whipped away by a bitter wind as in the distance, a retreating red cape dissolves into the eye of the storm. He is alone, and left to become one with the ice from which he was born. _

 

Runt.

Burden.

Failure.

Monster.

 

_ The woman laughs—delighted—as he cries out, writhing in pain. The fire creeps up his spine, each vertebrae sparking to light one by one. He tries to breathe through the pain, only for the fire to assault his windpipe and set his lungs ablaze in agony. _

_ “So weak,” she snarls, her mouth twisting into a cruel smile. _

_ He chokes, air becoming trapped in the new rawness of his throat. He shudders through every breath, and knows that on every exhale, droplets of blood paint the ground in front of him. _

_ “Speak,” she commands, and though he opens his mouth, all that leaves him is an airless scream. _

_ His body contorts as the fire begins to boil the blood in his veins, scorching his flesh from the inside out. Death. Death would be better than this, and the small part of him that is still coherent, supposes that that is rather the point. _

_ He screams, and this time the sound echoes off the walls of his cell, coming back to haunt his own ears long after his lungs have emptied. But his outburst does nothing to diminish the pain, and so this time when he opens his mouth, he pleads, in every language he knows. For the pain to stop, for the fire to cease. _

_ But the Norns have never paid him much mind, and as always, his pleas go unanswered. _

_ Her hand fists in his hair, and she keeps the tension until he quiets. “You plead for mercy when you have been shown nothing but generosity. By the time I’m done, you will wish for kindness such as this.” _

_ She releases him as the soldiers file out, and summons her spear to hand. _

_ “It will take time for the poison to run its course. Time enough to think on your mistakes.” _

_ With one final look full of threatening promise, she leaves. The door to his cell, bolted shut behind her. _

_ His body spasms, muscles contracting out of his control. He grits his teeth and bares it, determined not to give his tormentors—no doubt stationed outside his door—satisfaction in his screams. He waits for it to pass before dragging himself to the closest corner of his cell, only stopping when he is wedged against the wall. He curls in on himself; shuts his eyes and tries to breathe through the tremors. _

_ He attempts to separate himself from his body, withdrawing from the inferno inside of him, retreating into the recesses of his mind. It’s a practice he’s well acquainted with, something he had learned to do out of necessity rather than choice when he was growing up. Now, he is thankful for the lesson. _

_ He severs the connection as much he is able, and what can’t be severed, he manipulates to sit behind a barricade. _

_ He wracks his mind for energy to hold the wall, for ammunition to keep it strong. He searches for a distraction, a memory to keep himself from slipping into delirium. _

_ His mind dredges up the icy plains of Jotunheim; the casket, glowing ever brighter in his traitorous hands. He delves deeper and feels the bifrost shatter beneath his feet, feels Gungnir slip from his grasp, feels the tug of the void as he is sucked ever further into nothingness. _

_ But behind the vast emptiness of the void, he sees colour, sees the life he had before. He thinks of golden towers and an azure sky. Of red, silver and storms. _

_ Tears flood his eyes, not from the pain that begins to seep through his barrier, but from longing. He blinks and feels wetness on his cheeks, and somehow, even those trails seem determined to sear into his skin. _

_ He wishes he could stop. Stop crying. Stop breathing. Stop existing. _

_ He remembers all he used to have, all of it built on lies, all of it his. He opens his eyes and sees nothing by the dim light that illuminates his cell. No Kingdom of his own, no family with which to share it.   _

_ He has nothing. _

_ Nothing but his name. _

_ “Loki,” he rasps between sobs, “my name is Loki.” _

_ But he is alone, and there is no one to hear his confession. _

 

* * *

 

Thor came into wakefulness all at once, eyes snapping open as he bolted upright off the sofa. His eyes probed the darkness for threats, seeing silhouettes in the shadows. His heartbeat—was it  _ his _  heartbeat?—thundered like the hooves of a running horse.

Every beat throbbed, as if his brain were suddenly too big for his skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose, turning to plant his feet on the cool tiled floor. In the back of his mind, screams—Loki’s screams—still echoed, raising goosebumps on his skin, though he was slick with sweat.

Thor buried his head in his hands. It was just a dream, just a… a dream his mind had conjured out of guilt.  

But it had been so real. Every sensation had been tangible, from the fire in his veins, to the feeling of the casket in his hands. It was as if he had been there.

Across the room, Loki shuffled, kicking his sheets to the floor as he tossed and turned, restless even in sleep. His brother huffed, a sad, needy sound that seemed so loud in their otherwise silent room.

Thor rose from the couch, carefully stepping to Loki's side. He ached to reach out, to smooth the hair back from Loki's face, to see his features relax into contentment.

“I’m sorry,” Thor whispered, uncertain exactly what he was apologising for. The list in recent years, had grown far too long.

He reached down, picking Loki's discarded sheets up off the floor. Only hesitating for a moment before he gently draped them over his brothers sleeping form. Beneath the added weight, Loki slowly settled, his face relaxing into something that resembled the younger brother from Thor's memories.

It soothed something in Thor, to see Loki at peace. No matter how fleeting the moment. There was so little he could do now, so few gestures that Loki allowed him.

He sank back into the sofa, grabbing a blanket to pull round his shoulders as he began to shiver. From cold or something else, he didn’t know.

He spent minutes, hours, lifetimes watching Loki sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he dreamed. The little noises he made whenever he turned over. All of it, a balm to Thor’s heart.

He lay down and listened, to the small hums and murmurs, to the muted snores, to the occasional uttered word. He played them over in his mind. Loud enough that he could drown out the memory of Loki's screams. Loud enough that he could think of nothing else but Loki in this room, with him. Safe.

Fear still gnawed at him, and his mind raced with possibilities at what the dream had meant. Whether it was truly some nightmare drawn from darkest depths of his mind. Or whether there was truth in it.

Whether Loki had fallen into the hands of those- creatures.

Thor’s mind tormented him with memories of Jotunheim, of the bifrost—of Loki.

But whatever Loki had endured, was over. He was here, sleeping peacefully in their bed not six feet away.

Thor listened, and counted Loki's breaths. Listened, and breathed with him.

Listened, and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](https://teleris-night.tumblr.com/)


End file.
